


Temperance

by effing_gravity (Malteaser)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Comfort Food, Eating Disorders, M/M, cw Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 01:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malteaser/pseuds/effing_gravity
Summary: In the wake of the Fauxpocalypse, Aziraphale does his utmost to live his best and pettiest life.





	Temperance

It would be a lie to say that Aziraphale never thought back on Gabriel’s words. After all, the Archangel had been his commanding officer for roughly six thousand years, and in that time, he’d been, variably, someone whose approval he’d required both emotionally and politically, his main link back with Heaven, which was meant to be his home. He’d been a boss whose temper was terrifying, the angel in charge of divine revelation, and an asshole whose relative rank meant that he’d had to put up with him with little recourse. He’d spent millennia paying close attention to his every word out of sheer self-preservation; it only made sense that he’d have trouble laying the habit aside. 

_Lose the gut._

That one tended to reverberate fairly often. Possibly because for someone who really spent absolutely no time or effort attempting to care about or even pay attention to current events on Earth, that was very much a sentiment that was echoed everywhere. It was in the constant advertisements for weight loss pills and diet regimens; it was in the boors who came to Pride wearing T-shirts saying NO FATS NO FEMMES; it was even frequently in the utterly stupid political moment they were having at present. 

_Lose the gut. Lose the gut. Lose the gut._

“You know what, dear? I do believe I’ll have _two_ giant eclairs this morning, and one of those new mochaccinos, along with a black coffee, please,” he said, already dropping money for the tip into the barista’s jar. 

That was the truly liberating part of all of this. He could recall Gabriel’s words, and then simply not give a damn. 

It was a short walk back to the bookshop from the coffeeshop, but a productive one. There were two girls looking at the lingerie advertisement on the bus stop in despair. _There is nothing wrong with the way you look,_ he whispers into the mind of the heavyset one, adding after a moment to listen to her memories _And well done with the weightlifting! Fifty kilos is nothing to be shy about!_ She stood a little straighter. 

The thin one required a bit more work: Famine had his jaws sunk into that one. _You’re really much too thin, my dear. Please don’t do another cleanse, and definitely don’t purge, Please call your-_ He stopped as many years worth of hurtful words from family members played through his mind from hers. _Please call your aunt,_ he decided. 

Still looking faintly ill, she reached into her bag and took out her phone. Aziraphale continued on his way. The rest was in her hands.

He passed a young man and his young man on their way to brunch ( _Tell him that his jokes about your stomach make you uncomfortable, and if he can’t at least try to stop, dump him._ ), a doctor on her way to work( _Try to stay away from weight and BMI when talking with your patients, please. It helps no one._ ), and a new mother studying her reflection guiltily in a storefront window( _It’s okay to feel weird that the body you have post-partum doesn’t match how you see yourself, you aren’t failing your daughter by having a moment of doubt._ ). People all up and down the street ended up with a bit more cash than they’d thought they’d had when the left home that morning, just enough to treat themselves to something sweet, should they so desire.

He wasn’t sure if anyone was keeping track of his miraculous expenses any more, much less if Gabriel was still keeping track of them, but if they were being tracked, he hoped the implicit middle finger he was making was obvious enough. 

Crowley was still asleep, spread out diagonally on the bed with one hand trailing onto the floor, caught in a beam of mid-morning sunshine. Aziraphale left his coffee on the bedside table, and went to go set up breakfast in the kitchen. 

As anticipated, it wasn’t more than five minutes before Crowley emerged, half-drunk coffee in hand. 

“Do I rate one of those?” he asked, pointing to the eclairs as he draped himself into a chair. 

“You may have half of one,” Aziraphale told him over the top of his mochaccino. 

Crowley grumbled, but still left the bigger half on the plate for Aziraphale, the slightly overstuffed filing spilling out onto the plate where it had been torn in two.

_Lose the gut._

If the Gabriel voice in his head could have been externalized as some kind of shoulder angel, Aziraphale would have flicked him off long ago. As it was, he put the words out of his mind, and dug into his breakfast. 

It was, all in all, a thoroughly enjoyable, 100% Heaven unapproved morning.


End file.
